


Heal doubts and diseases

by Corycides



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: F/M, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 15:38:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corycides/pseuds/Corycides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maggie survived Lowell, but will she survive living with the whole Matheson clan in Willoughby?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heal doubts and diseases

‘That’s it, sweetheart,’ Porter said absently. ‘Just keep the pressure steady.’

Maggie smiled admiringly at him, waiting until he turned back to stitching the patient up. Then she pulled her fingers out of the wound - ignoring the geyser of arterial blood - and grabbed a nearby scalpel, stabbing it right into Gene Porter’s eyeball. It hit the socket, impact jarring up her arm, and scraped, sliding up into soft tissue and nerve clumps...

‘Hand me that clamp, Maggie?’ he asked, glancing up at her. His eyebrows bobbed up with paternalistic concern. ‘Is something wrong.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Nothing at all.’

They finished stitching up the young tailor’s thigh - apparently you really shouldn’t run with scissors - and Porter excused himself to check on Rachel. Co-incidentally leaving Maggie to scrub the operating room down, carbolic soap stinging her arms and cracking the beds of her nails.

It needed done. Maggie didn’t mind that. The smell of carbolic was a lot more pleasant than kneeling for three hours in pig shit because you were the town vet as well as doctor. It was just...everything. Finished she stripped her stained clothes off  - tossing them into the basket for the cleaner - and dragged on a plain, cotton dress.

Ben would have liked it, she thought - poking at his absence like it was a pulled tooth. He wasn’t the sort of man to tell her what to wear, but there was a special look he gave her whenever she put on her holiday skirt. Sometimes she’d wondered if he’d ever really loved her. Or if she’d really loved him. There had been so many lies and half-truths that she didn’t think she’d known him at all. Just that he’d liked her legs and her lamb hotpot.

Maybe that’s why this was so...easy. Payback on a dead man.

It was hot, the brutal anvil heat of a Texas summer. Even after months here, Maggie couldn’t used to it. She was from the Lake District, her body was designed to function in a clammy, moderate climate with a lot of tea available. Running her fingers through her hair she twisted it up on top of her head, twisting elastic into the curls.

A few people nodded at her on the way by, but she looked purposeful enough that no one tried to stop her. Maggie stopped at the end of the street, hesitating. She could go home, eat one of the pies that people kept giving her and read one of the awesomely florid romances she’d mail-ordered from Denver. Except the same one had been lying dog-eared on her bedside table for the last month.

Why read about other people’s poor romantic decisions when you could be making your own.

* * *

 

Miles sprawled on top of her, weight propped on his elbows, and smirked down at her. ‘Sometimes, Doc, I think you’re just using me for my body.’

‘That’s because I am,’ Maggie said.

He laughed and rolled off her, stretching out on the thin, bare mattress and making a lifetime of abused joints and muscles snap, crackle and twist under his skin. There were new aches and pains too - a twist of tenderness where that rubbed loose shoulder joint had taken more abuse, swelling over the knuckles of one hand.

‘You’ve cracked a finger,’ she said, sliding out of bed and walking over to the dresser. ‘Again.’

He held his hand up to look at it and shrugged, lip curling dismissively. ‘It’ll heal.’

‘One winter, you’re going to regret every punch you’ve thrown,’ she told him, uncrumpling the flannel and eyeing it dubiously.

‘It ain’t touched anything you’ve not had in your mouth,’ Miles pointed out. ‘And once my hands go, I’ll be dead before I have too much time for regret, Doc. You could stay, you know.’

Maggie ran the cloth over the back of her neck, lukewarm water trickling down her neck. ‘Yes, because this is such an appealing place to lay my head - a stained mattress -’

‘You are at least half responsible for that...’

‘A desk with whiskey bottles filed by empty, half-empty and full and a single chair,’ Maggie said, ignoring him. ‘Thank god, I got my claws into you before the ladies of the town realised what a catch you are.’

‘Well, that’s just hurtful.’

Maggie sighed and finished cleaning up. ‘We’ve already been through this, Miles. It’s a bad idea.’

‘Since when has that stopped either of us?’

‘Miles, not now,’ Maggie sighed.

‘When then?’

She glanced over at him, wriggling her underwear on over damp skin. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Never? Never sounds good to me.’

Miles rubbed his hand over his face, fingers scraping over stubble. ‘It doesn’t to me.’

‘Stop it.’

‘We’re an item.’

‘No, we’re not.’

She grabbed for her dress, hanging over the edge of the bed, and Miles caught her hand. He pulled her down into his lap, hand sliding between her legs. His thumb grazed across the rough scar where Aaron had stitched her up.

‘We’ve been fucking since Lowell,’ he said. ‘Why not...make it official?’

‘Charlie-’

‘Isn’t a kid anymore,’ Miles said. ‘She’s learned worse about the people she loves than that two of them are consensually screwing.’

He kissed her shoulder, leaving razor burn on the tender skin of her throat, and worked his hand against her. It made her breath catch, the ache of over-sensitised nerves flaring over her hips and down her thighs. She grabbed his wrist to stop it, but somehow her fingers just ended up twisted through his instead. Her hips lifted, thighs spreading, to give him access.

‘I’m not staying,’ she said, truth creaking out of her.

Miles laughed against her throat. ‘You sure.’

She swallowed. ‘I’m not staying in Willoughby, Miles.’

‘What? Maggie, this is your home.’

‘No,’ Maggie said, squirming reluctantly out of his lap and taking her dress with her. ‘Miles, I...I was never part of this. I only stayed to take care of Charlie, I only ever stayed here to make sure she came home safe. Now she’s back and she’s got her family around her. She doesn’t need me.’

‘She loves you.’

‘Sometimes,’ Maggie said. ‘But she’s not my daughter. They were never my family, and you’re not mine either.’

He had the grace not to dispute that. ‘I’m not having this conversation naked,’ he growled, climbing out of bed and grabbing his jeans to yank them on. Maggie left him to it, heading down into the street. He caught up with her at the bakery, barefoot and rumpled. The baker glanced at him and raised sandy brows in approval at Maggie.

Damn it.

‘There’s nothing to talk about Miles,’ she hissed irritably, retreating out into the street with no bread. He followed after her and she resisted the urge to hit him. ‘For god’s sake, you’re going to step on a nail and get tetanus. Go put your boots on.’

‘Stay.’

‘I’m not staying in Willoughby so you’ll wear shoes, Miles. Society, and the terrain, enforces shoe wearing.’

‘Is this about Rachel?’

‘Ding ding ding,’ Maggie said, walking down the street as fast as she could without breaking into a run. ‘Give the man a prize. Yes, Miles, it’s about Rachel. It’s also about Nora, who you banged while I was in Atlanta.’

He looked guilty. Maggie resisted the urge to roll her eyes. ‘We’re not dating, Miles, we’re...screwed up people who occasionally screw. You’d rather be with Rachel and I’d rather just give her the seat I’ve been keeping warm and move on.’

Miles caught her arm, pulling her to a stop. ‘Move on...’ he looked up.

‘I’m not a Christian,’ she said coolly. ‘I don’t believe in heaven, or hell. If I was going to commit suicide, the furthest I’d travel would be the shallow grave someone kicked me into. But I’m not. My sons are dead and I’ve lived with that long enough it’s become a habit.’

All her sons were dead. Even the one that wasn’t really hers. She sniffed and lifted her chin, refusing to get weepy at this juncture.

‘So you don’t need to worry about me,’ she said. ‘I’ll find a nice town that needs a doctor. We’re always welcome.’

Miles tightened his grip on her forearm. ‘So what? You’re just giving up to Rachel without a fight?’

‘A fight? Miles, we’re not sixteen or Regency dandies,’ Maggie said, throwing her hands up. ‘What do you expect me to do? Challenge her to duel? Menopause at 30 paces? You’re not a prime piece of farmland. I’m not going to fight her for possession - especially not when she’s already won. How long have you been in love with your brother’s wife, Miles?’

It was a cruel question in some ways. Maggie already knew the answer. Maybe to make up for all the lies he had to tell, Ben had been open about the rest of his life. She knew about the affair. So why did Miles’ devastated, guilty expression feel like a blow to the gut? Maggie supposed she’d been reading too many romances, had somehow expected a last act reveal that he’d loved her all along.

Lacking that she managed a tolerant smile.

‘The heart wants what it wants, isn’t that it?’ she asked. Leaning in she kissed Miles check, stubble against her lips and the smell of smoke and soap on his skin. ‘I’m sorry.’

She wasn’t sure what for. Maybe just sorry for herself. This time he didn’t try and stop her leaving.

* * *

The blisters - fat and taut and yellow - were the best of it. Scalded skin peeled off the girl’s thigh in great, blanched swathes, the flesh underneath wet and weeping. The girl was wailing with the pain of it, face raw with weeping and dotted with tiny blisters where the fat had splashed. Maggie hated burns. They hurt, they were prone to infection, they scarred…

‘Get the heroin, Gene,’ she said. ‘I’ll get the IV set up.’

‘I don’t have any,’ Porter said.

‘What? Why not?’

‘I don’t traffic with drug dealers,’ Porter said stiffly. ‘There’s no poppy fields around Willoughby.’

‘It’s an opiate,’ Maggie said. She had to resist the urge to speak slowly and clearly. ‘It’s a painkiller. We need painkillers.’

Porter pulled that face. The one that he used on Rachel all the time, the one that tried to pass constipation off as wisdom. ‘Just because the world changed, Maggie, doesn’t mean we have to just give up on civilisation. We can’t just trading for class a drugs at the market like they’re-’

‘Shut up,’ Maggie snapped. It wasn’t the first time she’d thought about saying it. Usually she bit her tongue. ‘You aren’t Old Mother Hubbard, I don’t care why your cupboard is bare. What do we have?’

Porter sucked his teeth. ‘I have some morphine tablets left,’ he said. ‘They were my wife’s. I’ve been ekeing them out...’

There was a patient to take care off. Maggie didn’t have time to close her eyes and count to 100  - and right now she really didn’t want to know if Porter really was so stupid he didn’t know what the base of morphine was or if he was just a hypocrite.

‘Get them.’

He gave her a particularly shady look and disappeared into the back room, closing the door behind him. Maggie forced herself to smile and wiped snotty hair back from the girl’ face. ‘The pain will be better soon. Just hold on.’

The wailing had gone dry, just an animal coughing sound and dry eyes. Not a good sign. Maggie grabbed one of the prepped IV containers and set it up, checking the tubing as she unlooped it. The girl was shaking as Maggie pinned her arm down and tied it off. No vein in the crook of her elbow. She had to go to the vein on the back of the hand, sliding the catheter in.

Porter came back in as she was taping it off. He poked at the edges with a finger. ‘Good job. Good job, Maggie.’

She didn’t give him the finger. It wasn’t, she knew, that he was a patronising old git. This was just how he was used to interacting with smart, blonde women of a certain age. She was just a lot less tolerant of it than Rachel was.

Her irritation was forgotten as she noticed what Porter was fumbling into the girl’s mouth. She grabbed his wrist, fingers digging in until he fumbled the pill. Except it wasn’t a pill, it was a small purple lozenge.

‘That’s your wife’s morphine?’ she said.

‘Yes. It was for a dental operation, before the Blackout,’ he said, with the confidence and indignation of someone who’s told this lie so much they almost believed it. ‘I’ve been saving them the best I can.’

Maggie let go of his hand and he slipped the lozenge past the patient’s lips. It didn’t long to take effect and they did what they could for the burns. Not enough, it was never enough. Once they were finished, Maggie stalked over the other door and yanked it open. Drying herbs and well-scrubbed instruments lined the shelves, but that wasn’t what she was interested in today. She shoved boxes out of the way to check the walls, scraping her nails long the plaster, and kicked at the floor with the heels of her boots.

‘What are you doing!’ Porter spluttered from the doorway. ‘Get out of there! How dare you-’

One of the boards creaked under her foot, shifting to the side. Maggie dropped to her knees and ran her fingers along the edge, finding the dents where fingernails had dug in a hundred times. Still spluttering, Porter grabbed her by the arm and yanked her up.

‘You’re a guest in my house, in my surgery,’ he said. ‘I would appreciate it if you would remember that.’

‘And I’d appreciate you not lying to my face,’ Maggie said flatly. ‘Where did you get those meds, Doctor Porter.’

‘Maggie-,’

‘Doctor Foster,’ she corrected. ‘So before you lie to me again? I’d suggest you remember I know what a morphine pill looks like.’

He opened and shut his mouth. For god’s sake, the man actually hadn’t thought of that. The hallway floor creaked and Charlie burst into the surgery. Her eyes flicked to the burned girl, all raw wounds and honey, and she went a bit tight around the jaw. It hurt Maggie to know she’d seen worse.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked. ‘Maggie?’

‘Maggie - Doctor Foster - is just leaving,’ Porter said. ‘She found surgery upsetting today.’

His fingers pinched at Maggie’s arm and he muttered in her ear. ‘You know how Rachel is. If Charlie tells her this - don’t encourage her.’

There was genuine worry in his voice, but… Rachel’s paranoia had never seemed baseless to Maggie. Not after what they’d seen in the Tower. Now.. She looked at Charlie.

‘I was a virologist at the Porton Down MOD facility,’ she said flatly. Charlie just looked confused. ‘It was a skunk-works, like the Tower. And your grandfather has a stock of fentanyl lollipops, that he claims were given to his wife after a dental procedure. So unless that was a very interesting insurance policy...’

Charlie hesitated. ‘He...we all had to loot,’ she said slowly. ‘And he doesn’t know you, why should he trust you?’

‘No reason,’ she said. ‘Except now I know he has it, so why keep lying?’

They stared at each other. It was a small thing to ask someone to distrust their family over, but they’d both had experience with liars, hadn’t they. After a second Charlie nodded.

‘I want to see,’ she said.

‘We have a patient-’

Charlie dragged him out of the room, and Maggie shoved the door shut and locked it. While he hammered on the other side she crouched down and pried up the floorboard to uncover Porter’s stash. It was more extensive than she’d imagined.

* * *

Maggie sat on the porch outside the Porter house, drinking a glass of whiskey. Her head was thumping with having to play witness to Gene’s treachery. She felt...guilty. It was as if every time something went wrong for the Mathesons, she was there.

She sighed and rested her head against the post, closing her eyes. The glass was cold against her cheek. She felt the boards shift under her backside as someone came out, but didn’t look up. Not until a slim, warm arm hooked around her shoulders.

‘Sometimes you must regret ever meeting my dad,’ Charlie said. ‘My family’s full of monsters.’

It had been years since Charlie cuddled Maggie. Uncertain of how to react, Maggie reached up and awkwardly patted her hand. ‘I was no saint, before.’

‘You didn’t end the world.’

Maggie laughed roughly. ‘Luck, probably. And trust me, no power is probably better than zombies.’

‘I never said thank you,’ Charlie said, voice small.

‘For what?’

There was silence for a second, and then Charlie hugged her till her bones creaked. ‘For everything,’ she said. ‘You know, if you and Miles were to make a go of it? I think Dad would be ok with it.’

‘We aren’t-’ Maggie protested, the words knee jerk.

Charlie snorted at her. ‘You are. It’s ok. I mean, you’d probably be good for him. He’s kinda rubbish at taking care of himself, you know?’

Maggie glanced sidelong at Charlie. ‘Miles and your mother-’

‘Mom can’t take care of anyone else,’ Charlie said, standing up. ‘Not now. And if her and Miles were going to work it out, I think they would have by now.’

She went back inside. Maggie drank her whiskey and thought about Miles...being around. She still wasn’t sure she wanted it, but...maybe.

 


End file.
